


Irrelevant

by Broken_irises



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Sherlock is high
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-25
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:01:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26640316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Broken_irises/pseuds/Broken_irises
Summary: Sherlock meets a young violinist and hires her to play at John's wedding. Sherlock and the violinist befriend each other with ulterior motives in mind, but there may be a genuine connection blooming and neither of them know how to deal with it. Secrets from their connected past loom dangerously, threatening to resurface.
Relationships: Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 24





	1. The Rosin Thief

**Author's Note:**

> This chapter was inspired by Hilary Hahn's recording of Paganini's Violin Concerto 1
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MenIhT7umeM&t=202s

Sherlock sat on his tattered couch in 221B Baker Street, impatiently waiting for the comforting nicotinic numbness to seep in from the patches on his arm. And yet underneath his huffy demeanor, he was excited. He had encountered, after many years, a three patch problem. As the poison sped through his veins, Sherlock sank back onto the couch and into his mind palace. A pair of storm-colored eyes blocked his vision and he swiped at the image to get rid of it.

John sat on the floor surrounded by sheet music and serviettes. As excited as he was to be wedded to Mary, the actual process was proving to be rather exhausting. He had no genuine preference for the flowers or the cakes or even the guests. The only thing that held a semblance of interest for him was the music. John was a traditionalist when it came to music but Sherlock had declared he would compose an original melody for the first dance. After much argument over Sherlock's reliability, John and Mary had reluctantly agreed to let him play at their wedding. So when Sherlock waltzed in claiming he'd hired a woman he just met to take his place as the wedding violinist, John was (unlike Mary) outraged.

"I thought you went there to buy rosin. Not hire a stranger. Who is this girl?"

"Irrelevant." Sherlock muttered.

"This is very relevant Sherlock. The wedding is in two days." John huffed, pleasantly surprised that Sherlock had responded to him. When Sherlock was locked in his mind high on nicotine, he wouldn't speak for hours, sometimes days. A quick glance at him erased John's surprise. Sherlock lay unmoving on the couch. His palms were pressed together, resting on his chin. He hadn't responded to John at all. John waited for the onslaught of senseless information that was about to come out of his friend's mouth. As if on cue, Sherlock sat up, his eyes glazed over by whatever it was that had caught his attention.

"I never thought this would happen again. Question marks everywhere, John, she's an enigma. A three patch problem. Of all the people, how did I walk into that shop at the same time as her? Endless possibilities eliminated to create one hyper specific scenario. No, coincidences are a myth."

"Sure." John deadpanned. "Now, about the musician...?"

Sherlock handed John his laptop and resumed his position on the couch. The screen displayed several tabs of YouTube videos of a girl playing a violin. John clicked on one and a light staccato melody filled the room. The girl was clearly a very good player and was also less likely to run off after a criminal mastermind in the middle of the event. John was sure Mary wouldn't mind the replacement.

"She'll do. What's her name?" John mused, squinting at the screen for identifying information.

"Irrelevant."

Sherlock smirked. Back in his mind palace, his surroundings twisted into the music store he went to earlier that day and the memory played like a recording from the past.

_Shuffling into the store, Sherlock made a beeline for the rosin. He preferred to outsource menial tasks but John was already stressed about the wedding or maybe it was about the impending doom of his investigative life that constantly landed him in danger. John and Mary had shared twenty-three kisses that day, all brief and open-eyed. They were overcompensating, trying to convince themselves that the wedding was not affecting the level or at least the frequency of intimate interaction in their relationship. Sherlock decided that his music and the offloaded wedding jitters during the first dance would serve as the perfect heady mix to get the two lovebirds hot and heavy again. As he reached for the last rosin box on the shelf, a small unassuming hand swiped it from underneath his hand. By the time he looked up, the person was already hurrying towards the cash register. He hastily followed._

_"I need that." He said to the rosin thief who was a small woman, roughly his own age with a long messy ponytail of dark hair. She looked up at him with her close set grey eyes, her gaze unamused._

_"So do I." she responded._

_"There are other stores." he argued while simultaneously wondering why he was arguing with her. Nebulous images of puppies and swords floated through his mind. He shook his head to get rid of the unwarranted thoughts._

_"Good luck with them." she shrugged and paid the cashier._

_"With what?" Sherlock was biding his time. If he looked at her long enough, maybe he would remember who she was. Her neck sported a fading bruise and her nails were clipped to the skin. A violinist._

_"With your rosin stores" She said, looking at him incredulously. She adjusted her glasses with the heel of her palm and squinted at him. A streak of recognition passed over her face before she swiftly spun on her heels and rushed out of the store. Sherlock followed her once more._

_On the side of the street, the rosin thief arranged her face on the chin guard of her violin. Too precise for a hustler. Her case was haphazardly thrown on the sidewalk. A tall man stood next to her with his own violin. A competition. Before the man could play a single note, the rosin thief began playing the main theme of the complex Paganini Concerto 1. Sherlock watched the man try to compete but he couldn't even project his sound enough to be heard over the girl. After a fifteen minute struggle, the rosin thief was the clear winner. Saving an image of her face in the archives of his mind, Sherlock walked away. He was almost to the next block when he heard someone calling after him._

_"Hey! Guy from the store!" The rosin thief lugged her violin case behind her as she shuffled towards him._

_"Here's the rosin you were after" the box of rosin she swiped sat on her palm. "I won the competition, I'm done with this."_

_Sherlock pocketed the rosin and reached for his wallet._

_"You don't have to pay me. This competition was important to me and your brooding stare was motivating." she beamed at him. Those wild grey eyes reminded him of the sea and of conniving pirates._

_"I don't want to owe you money, your competition is irrelevant." Sherlock handed her a wad of cash._

_"This is too much money for rosin." She narrowed her eyes at the money._

_"My friend is getting married on Thursday. I'd like you to play for the first dance."_

_"Sure." She shoved the bills in her jacket pocket and pulled out a pen. Grabbing his arm, she wrote her number on the back of his hand in a looping handwriting. "Text me the details"_

_"What sort of trouble are you in?" Sherlock asked, surprising her. "You clearly need money. You hustled a street hustler and accepted a random job from a stranger on two day notice, but you play like a classically trained musician. You can't afford to waste money or you'd be better dressed, and yet you gave me this box of rosin for free-_ Ah!

"John, it's the rosin box!" He sat up on the couch once again, but John was long gone. The sun had set and he was alone in the dark, windy apartment.

Making his way to the coat closet downstairs, Sherlock carefully pulled out the rosin box from his jacket pocket. He slipped the rosin out of it's cardboard exterior and examined it. Then he tossed it on the floor and placed the flimsy cardboard cover under his magnifier.

Sherlock stumbled back on the stairs. His head was swimming in confusion, as if an old memory was trying to claw its way back from oblivion and into his mind.

On the rosin box, in a tiny looping print was written a single word-Redbeard.


	2. Mayfly

The serenading lilt of a violin faltered on a note and came to an abrupt halt as Sherlock took a vow to protect all three of the Watsons. Sherlock mentally chastised himself for his overzealous deduction. He’d been wrong about why there was a lack of intimacy between the Watsons; it wasn’t the wedding jitters or John’s affinity for danger. 

_Hormones! There’s always something._ He thought bitterly.

The crowd filled in the empty spaces on the dance floor leaving Mary staring at a bewildered John. Sherlock sheepishly descended from the stage and joined his friends. He apologized for the sudden and involuntary revelation, and was pleasantly surprised when the happy couple turned even happier at the horrifying prospect of caring for a loud, dependent and entitled little creature. 

With the Mayfly man imprisoned and the Watson wedding completed, Sherlock counted the day as a success and decided it was time to move on to his next project. Leaving John and Mary to rejoice about their newfound parenthood, he shrugged his coat on and headed out into the dark night. 

Four hours later, he stood at a bus stop fingering his cigarette lighter. Rain poured on the streets of London threatening to wash away its stench of sins. Sherlock was reluctant to smoke the low tar crap Mycroft had given him. He was aching for a puff but held off, anticipating a better quality of intoxicant. The clunky rattle of a violin case pulled him from his thoughts. A small figure stumbled into the cramped but dry space under the bus stop roof. Dusty street lamps shone yellow light on the lonely pair hiding from the storm. Sherlock’s companion hugged her violin case closer to her body.

“Well played” he muttered, making her gasp in surprise.

“Oh, it’s you Sherlock,” the girl huffed in relief.

“You can drop the act,” He flicked on his lighter, lit a cigarette and sucked in a full breath of nicotine. “Well played.”

The smoke lay thick on his vocal cords, merging his voice with the rumble of the thunderclouds. The girl squared her shoulders defiantly, as if she was offended at being caught in her act.

“Took you long enough.” 

“I remember getting Redbeard from your father’s store,” Sherlock mused. 

“My father was a foolish man” the girl looked up at him. Her eyes glistened with emotion. Raindrops raced down her glasses. 

Sherlock wondered what fate had befallen the old owner of the pet store near Musgrave Hall. His thoughts wandered back to his childhood in the countryside public school. Carl Powers had been something of an idiot, but when he died, Sherlock knew something was off. Nobody in the town believed him except for a snotty, timid little girl with big eyes and a pathetic pair of broken glasses. She told him they pushed her into a puddle full of rainwater and pebbles and the pebbles cracked the side of her glasses. She told him her name was Ella. They spent hours by the lake trying to figure out how Carl died. Sherlock was tall for his age and he looked psychotic, so he would walk her to school to keep away the mean kids. She loved animals and cared for all the creatures in her father’s store. 

One day, Sherlock walked into the dingy little animal house only to see Ella and her father in a scuffle over a puppy. The poor dog had run out the back door and Ella’s father wanted to discipline him using a stick. Ella was having none of that. Sherlock pulled out all the pocket money he had saved in his wallet and promptly ended the fight by exchanging the dog for the money. He named him Redbeard. After the disturbing incident, Sherlock often walked Redbeard by the pet store, sneering at Ella’s father. But, he never saw Ella again- until she materialized before him decades later and stole his rosin.

Sherlock interrupted the soothing rhythm of the raindrops against the pavement.

“Where did you go?” 

He’d never quite solved the mystery of Ella. He believed her father sent her away to a boarding school. Nobody spoke of her. He’d always seen her as fragile- a clever princess stuck in the tower of her mind, waiting to be rescued. But, after doing his research for two weeks, he suspected there was more to her story. All her online profiles had different names. She masqueraded as an odd-job specialist. For a price she could be anyone- a violin player at a wedding, a dog walker, a phlebotomist, a housesitter, or a tutor. She worked, for most people, only once, and every single job she worked got her access to private information about her employers.

“I was sent to London,” she said.

“And now you’re a violinist?”

“Don’t play naive Sherlock. I’m sure you’ve seen my online antics.”

She cocked her head to the side, studying the planes of his face.

“The Mayfly Man” she mused. “Quite the name. Was it for me?”

Sherlock smirked. She was sharp as ever. He admitted the accuracy of her deduction through an almost imperceptible shrug. Mayflies- pesky little insects of the Palaeoptera order, cousins to both the damselflies and the dragon flies. _Which one are you?_ Sherlock dismissed an unwarranted image of himself as a knight, faced with a hooded figure. _Foe or friend?_

“Are you here to enlist my services?” she asked. He shook his head.

“Not the ones you offer online.”

She raised her eyebrows expectantly. Sherlock dropped his burnt out cigarette on the ground and stomped at the remaining embers. 

“I hear you deal in information,” he said. “I need confidential information about an employer of yours. He’s been in the papers lately.”

Sherlock waved a half soaked newspaper in front of her face. She was visibly distressed when she recognized the person on the page.

“That’s not just _an_ employer. He’s _the_ employer. You want me to go against the big bad wolf.” 

“Yes.” He said simply.

She rearranged her glasses on her nose and contemplated the consequences of humoring his request. 

“Okay, I’ll do it.” she said, surprising both herself and Sherlock. 

“Really?” he asked “You’re willing to betray your highest paying employer. Why?”

She put her violin case on the ground and gently pulled the newspaper from Sherlock’s grip. A strange, cold look settled on her face as she ran her fingers over the picture on the front page. Sherlock saw her shoulders tense. Her bicep swelled as she fisted the newspaper, worsening its already creased condition. 

“I don’t quite like him,” she whispered, her voice hushed further by the raging storm that surrounded their tiny shelter. 

The distant loud screeching of tires on wet asphalt cut through the howling wind. A big red bus was hurtling down the street towards its final pick up spot for the night. Seeing the two potential passengers, the driver slammed the breaks and the bus came to halt inches away from them. Ella rearmed herself with her violin case.

“We haven’t discussed the job or the payment.” said Sherlock.

Ella locked eyes with him as she backed away towards the open door of the bus.

“My employer is a bad man, Sherlock. If you can stop him, that’ll be payment enough.”

“What about the job?”

“You want to create the illusion of weakness. I can make it happen.” She hauled her violin case and then herself onto the bus. Then she turned back to look at Sherlock.

“I’ll text you the details,” she called out, throwing the newspaper toward him. “Solve me a crime, Mr. Holmes.”

Sherlock watched the bus whisk her away into a blur of raindrops and traffic lights, as the newspaper fluttered onto the wet pavement, and water obliterated the crumpled front-page article on Charles Augustus Magnussen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Wow, I did not expect my hit count to go over 10. If you guys are following this story, know that I appreciate you.  
> I will try to update it as often as I can. If you bookmark the story you'll get notified when I update the story!
> 
> Please leave feedback in the comments and in the form of a kudos! <3


	3. Cider

_ Ella twirled a lock of hair around her yellow pencil. It was a 2B art pencil, soft lead, yellow stripes, probably by the brand Camlin. Why would she use an art pencil to take notes? _

_ “Sherlock?” his teacher’s voice resounded through the quiet classroom. Sherlock reluctantly shifted his gaze away from Ella.  _

_ “Have you finished your assignment?” the teacher asked.  _

_ Most teachers at the school disliked Sherlock. He was a smart-ass and a showoff. In contrast to his older brother Mycroft’s poised display of intellect, Sherlock was brazen and often rude while presenting what Mycroft called ”mental parlour tricks”. Nevertheless, neither boy had managed to develop any sort of friendship with the children at the school. Mycroft had never held much interest in friendships; only alliances. Sherlock, he said, possessed a lesser version of his own skills. He needed brawn in his circle, not more and inferior intellect. He created a small team of large children who would protect him when asked, in return for a trivial bit of help with their homework. Yet, Sherlock would find his way into Mycroft’s group of bodyguards and occasionally, Mycroft let him toy with the simple minded young boys he called his friends. Eventually, Mycroft grew tired of the lack of stimulation. After manipulating the faculty and his parents into agreeing to home-school him, Mycroft had escaped the pedestrian British schooling system. But Sherlock liked going to school.  _

_ Following the incident with Carl Powers, he had found someone who was immune to his constant fact-checking. Ella would sit in silence while Sherlock talked her ears off, and yet she was always listening. When he would emerge from hour-long explorations of his developing mind palace, she was always there to hear his epiphanies. Sherlock had found a friend. _

_ “Three days ago” Sherlock mumbled. _

_ “What?” _

_ Sherlock fished out the ridiculously easy math assignment from his bag and handed it to the teacher. She scanned through the answers, baffled at the detailed responses.  _

_ That evening, Sherlock took Ella to the apple orchard near his house. She brought a paper bag full of honey cakes, her ever present notebook, and her peculiar yellow art pencil. Her little hand felt soft in his grip as they weaved through the maze of apple trees. Her laughs echoed through the woods like a symphony, and the falling leaves danced to its lilt. For the first time, Sherlock felt a heady sense of belonging.  _

_ They sat between the thickets, drinking sweet brown cider and tracing patterns on the clouds. Often when they ventured out alone, Ella would draw pictures for him while he watched her. He watched the sunlight dance on her skin. He watched her hair kiss her face, over and over again in the wind. He watched her lips curl into a smile when she chastised him for drinking too much cider. He watched her delicate brows furrow as she carefully blossomed lead into flowers in her notebook. _

_ “Is that your favorite pencil?” Sherlock’s voice sounded strange in the hushed rustling of leaves. She giggled. _

_ “That’s not a pencil, Sherlock”  _

_ He reached for the object in question but it slipped out of her hand and rolled away. Sherlock chased it through the leaves on the ground but it seemed to have rolled into non-existence. When he turned around, Ella was gone. The world spun around him as he searched for his friend, until her scream tore through the silence of the forest. _

Sherlock’s eyes flew open, his pupils blown wide and his heart threatening to escape his chest. He rubbed the remains of sleep from his face. What the hell was that? Stowing the dream in his “evaluate-later” pile, Sherlock ripped open his dusty curtain. The streets were bathed in blue as dawn crept into day. A small brown packet lay outside the worn door of 221B, Baker Street. 

A short, sturdy looking man shuffled into the scene and swiped the packet off the stoop before rapping sharply on the door. John looked well, marriage suited him. Sherlock spun away from the window to assume position on his chair. Soon enough, John stumbled into the room. 

“Hi” he muttered. Sherlock tapped his foot impatiently.  _ Hand it over, John. _

“Right” John sighed, having received no response from his friend. Shaking his head, he held out the envelope.

“This was downst-”

Sherlock leapt out of his chair and snatched the item from John’s grip, quickly ripping it open and just as quickly pocketing it safely out of sight.

“I’m doing alright, by the way” John cleared his throat. Sherlock stared at John impassively. “In case you were wondering” he finished.

An awkward silence hung in the air. John mentally chastised himself. What was he thinking? That Sherlock would suddenly be up for small talk? Fancy a little chat? Ask him to stay for-

“Tea?” Sherlock asked, making his way to the kitchen and putting on a kettle. 

A few minutes later, John and Sherlock were nestled in their respective chairs, blinking at one another. Sherlock loudly sipped from his cup..

“So” John mumbled. “You’re uh-are you alright?”

“Yep.” 

“Are you taking cases?”

“Not many.”

“Must be boring then.”

“Yep”

“Did you quit smoking yet?”

“Nope”

“How’s Molly?”

“Well, I suppose.”

“And Greg?”

“Who?”

“Greg Lestrade.”

“Oh. Yeah he’s well too I suppose.”

“Right.” John nodded and chuckled. “You’re just waiting for me to leave, aren’t you? You just want to look at your packet alone.”

Sherlock smiled sheepishly.

“Okay, I just thought I’d drop in and...never mind.”

With John on his way out, Sherlock retrieved his object of interest from his pocket and allowed himself to examine it closely. The paper of the envelope was expensive, two ply card-stock. There was no label on it save the small word Ella had scrawled on the side- _ Cider. _ She had dropped it off personally. Inside lay one small white pill and a sealed, sterile syringe. The pill had no embossed markings. It was pristine. It was homemade. A small smirk played on Sherlock’s lips. 

Abandoning the envelope, he rushed into his kitchen with the pill and whacked a spoon on his burner. A vinegary smell wafted through the apartment as the pill melted on the hot spoon. Sherlock felt his vision tunnel.  _ John, sorry you had to leave. For this to work you had to leave. Ella what have you done? The perfect solution and the perfect problem all rolled into one. _ He ripped open the syringe packet with his teeth and drew the brown liquid into the barrel. Taking a deep breath he injected poison into his veins. Sherlock’s thoughts always raced towards a non-existent goal right before the high numbed everything. This time would be no different. His addiction—Ella had chosen well. Magnussen would believe this as his weak point because it was simple, effective and true. As the heroin coursed through his body, Sherlock stumbled back onto his chair. There he would lay in wait for the woman who had condemned him to this condition and the woman who would, undoubtedly, be his savior.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Late update, I know. Hope you like this one!
> 
> Don't forget to leave feedback in the form of a comment and a kudos!


	4. The Chemist

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Suggested accompanying music:   
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=B50hcK015Ok

The flimsy curtains ruffled in the evening breeze and the incessant ticking of the wall clock was the only sound that filled Sherlock’s mind. Quiet, quiet for once. Like the dust at the end of a sand storm, his thoughts settled in a windless desert, and Sherlock could see pictures on the inside of his eyelids. He watched the beige dunes stretch over a vast, empty landscape, disrupted only by a single figure clad in a black hooded robe. As his vision cleared, he discovered the lone ranger was Ella. She held a sword encrusted in gold. It reflected the angry red sun. Ella’s face looked small and misplaced in the dark attire. Sweat pooled at her neck and dripped down the crevice between the swell of her breasts. Yet, she seemed confident with her choice of clothing. Slowly, she approached him until she was pressed flush against him. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she placed a chaste kiss on his cheek. Sherlock felt his heartbeat accelerate as she rose on her tiptoes, brushing her lips along his jaw until her breath fanned his neck. Then, breaking the spell of silence, she whispered a song into his ear. 

“I that am lost, oh who will find me? 

Deep down below the old beech tree.

Help succour me now the east winds blow.

Sixteen by six, and under we go!”

Furrowing his eyebrows, Sherlock paused the reel playing in his mind. He backed away from Ella who remained frozen in place, as did everything else around the lonesome couple. Spinning on his heel he walked away from the quiescent scene, trudging through the sand until he reached the massive double doors of his mind palace. 

The palace stood like an obscene white monolith in the barren desert.  _ What is the purpose of building palaces when you could instead build a fortress? _ Mycroft’s voice resounded in Sherlock’s mind like the ever-present interruption it was. In contrast with the palatial outside, the inside of the mind palace was rarely as grand. More often than not, Sherlock morphed it into one of the many bizarre locations where he’d ended up while solving cases. But this was different, he had not planned this visit. It was impromptu and driven by narcotics. Sherlock was walking in a lucid dream.

The doors creaked open and Sherlock found himself walking into his childhood bedroom in Musgrave Hall. He fumbled through the papers on his desk, certain that he would find the object of his interest—a small notebook with drawings of flowers and trees, and a verse of a children’s rhyme scribbled hurriedly in pencil. For years he had kept that notebook, in awe of her art and in wait of her return. For days at a time, he had stared at those words, he must remember them. He was sure he could find it buried in the drawers of his desk, but the drawers seemed bottomless. The deeper he dug, the more useless things he found. Pictures of dogs, apples, toy swords like the one he had just left in Ella’s frozen fists, and oh-

He turned the notebook in his hands, afraid of what he would find inside. He sucked in a deep breath hoping the air had some vaporized form of courage.  _ Stalling does not achieve anything, Sherlock. _ Mycroft’s words rang in his ears. What the hell was he doing down here, anyway? Shaking his brother’s voice from his mind, he opened the notebook. 

The light from the windows reflected off the white pages as if they were mirrors. Bright, too bright. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as the light blinded him. Then came the memories. Sherlock could see them unfold like abridged retellings of fairy tales. He saw arguments with Mycroft, swim practice at school, him conducting naive chemistry experiments in the snow, he saw picnics in apple orchards. He saw himself and Mummy and Daddy, and Ella and Mycroft, and who was that? They stood still, crying, watching. He turned around to see what they were watching. That’s when he felt the heat and the strain of carbon in his lungs. Musgrave Hall was burning. 

Sherlock slammed the notebook shut and the image dissolved. The heat dissipated from his skin and he felt cold and alone within the walls of his old room. But a different problem was arising. Outside the confines of his mind palace, a bubbling sound was gaining amplitude. He peered out the peephole on his bedroom door. His eyes widened. Large brown waves were engulfing the desert landscape he had left behind. He felt panic take over his body. He was no longer in control of this dream.

Fighting against his shaking limbs, Sherlock rushed out of his room and towards Ella’s still immobile form. The tsunami was approaching fast and his legs were giving out. She was so close, but he wasn’t going to make it. He watched in vain as the water devoured her. He felt moisture on his cheek. Was he crying? No, it was the wave. It had reached him. His eyes traveled up the mountain of water that loomed above him. For a moment he thought he could stop it, freeze it like he had frozen Ella. This delusion was quickly dismissed by the rush of cold water that swept him off his feet. He tumbled in the tide, gasping and drowning, until he felt warm lips meet his. 

Air returned to his lungs and Sherlock sat up, heaving on his couch as his mind raced to catch up with reality. He was back in 221B Baker Street. Ella’s worried face loomed over him. His body lacked the energy for constraint so he pulled her to him thoughtlessly, wrapping her in a hug. She was mumbling an apology but he could hardly make out the words over his pounding heart. He held her as she softly cried into his soaked shirt. He held her because she was the only thing tying his consciousness to reality. 

When logic finally returned to his mind, Sherlock let go off her. Ella wiped the tears off her face. It seemed like they had both regained their composure. Sherlock curiously examined his wet clothes. Surely, he had imagined the tsunami. Ella noted his confusion and weakly offered an answer.

“I dumped a jug of water on you” she sniffled. Sherlock lifted an eyebrow, waiting for a better explanation.

“I’m sorry” Tears formed in her eyes, once more. “I miscalculated the dose.”

Sherlock sighed. Things were starting to make sense.

“You were burning up. I had to cool you down fast. Your heart was giving up so I gave you CPR.”

“You almost killed me.” Sherlock smirked.

“I also saved your life.”

“You’re the best chemist I’ve met and you’ve never miscalculated anything for as long as I’ve known you.”

“You haven’t known me very long and you don’t know a lot of chemists.”

Ella rummaged through her purse. She retrieved a brown package identical to the one she’d given him before. 

“These are the right dosage,” she handed him the bag. “It also has the address to the crack house downtown.”

“I know why you gave me the higher dose.” Sherlock muttered as Ella turned to leave.

Pausing at the door, she pushed her glasses back into their place on her nose. 

“It is important that he believes it’s not a farce,” she said sheepishly.

“I know” he smiled. “Did you at least get pictures?”

“Yes” she smiled back. “Don’t worry, Mr. Holmes. Your drug habit will hit the papers in a week.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well that was trippy. I had a LOT of coffee today, and I'm not even sorry for this crack-fic of a chapter. I hope you liked it!!
> 
> Please leave feedback in the comments or as a kudos! <3


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